


Farengar's Fire

by Wandering Mage (TragicZombie)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TragicZombie/pseuds/Wandering%20Mage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whiterun can be such a bore when all anyone wants to do is get drunk and hack swords at each other. Farengar was never really good at those things, anyway. Sighing, he kicked a stone across the path in front of the Battle-Born farm, wondering if he could sneak into Dragonsreach to spy on the new Jarl. Maybe he could finally check out where they'd trapped that dragon so many years ago.<br/>"Then again, maybe not," he muttered, ducking behind a large, overturned cart. That moron, Hjoed, was charging down the road, a handful of other children yelling as they followed closely behind him, wooden swords and clubs raised as they rushed an imaginary army of foes. The last thing Farengar needed was to draw Hjoed's attention. He still had a nasty bruise on his side from the last time they'd met, and Hjoed had promised that he'd bash his face in next.<br/>They were all so much rowdier and stronger than he was. "If only there was something to even the score a bit," he mumbled, kicking a cabbage away from him. It must have fallen from the cart. Some potion to make him stronger, maybe? Or some old hidden tome graced with the secret of Nordic strength? There had to be something. And Farengar was going to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Planting

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins on 7th of First Seed, 4E 164, just a few years before the Great War. It's meant to be a Whiterun Backstory, mostly focusing on Farengar growing up in Whiterun. The events are based entirely on my own headcanons, but I do reference canon material, and strive to keep the dialogue in character.  
> I do not, as of now, plan any hardcore "shipping" in this fic, especially since I personally think that Farengar just doesn't particularly care about such things, but if you feel so strongly about it, feel free to message me with any suggestions.

The last biting frost of winter had breathed its last a mere two weeks ago, the roads having shed their soft, downy coat of white to lavish in the icy muck that settled where, not long ago, snowdrifts had slept. The sky, too, had grown tired of shedding those constant silver flurries that nipped and sliced the noses and throats of the struggling wilds, and relented at last so that the throbbing heat of life could begin its season of recuperation. The people of Skyrim, ever watchful of the changes in the stars, loosed their winter cloaks, and lined their boots in eager preparation for the first planting, blinking away the exhaustion of the cold in anticipation of a fruitful Spring. Boys and girls burst from the confines of the ash-stained walls of their homes, lighting the air with their mirthful screams, and women conversed over buckets of water as they wiped clean the soot from around their hearths. Young opportunists began to trickle steadily back into Whiterun, attracted by the graciousness of the Jarl and the glory of the Companions.  
The city was lively once again, but the farms that lay outside the city walls had been stirring for at least a month already. The crops had yet to be planted, but stores of wool were primed for thread making, and leftover wood stores were ready for carving into intricate spoons and forks and bowls. Come the seventh of First Seed, the caravans would arrive in time for the celebration of First Planting, and men, women, and children alike had been busily creating beautiful wares to be sold, in hopes of supplementing their usual meager income. And so, a young boy named Farengar spent the first month of Spring as was typical for a child of his station. This year had marked the passage of his eleventh Winter, though he looked much younger. Perhaps the cold had been hard on him, but he had always been rather thin for a Nord. In fact, his dark hair and light gray eyes coupled with his smaller frame often led strangers to mistakenly believe he was a Breton. It was a source of bitterness for the boy. Like all Nord children, he had been raised with tales of great heroes who boasted immense and mighty strength, and dreamed of earning such skill and greatness for himself one day. He had been more comparable in size to his peers as a younger child, but as the years sped on, his old playmates had grown strong and hardy quickly, leaving thin, sallow Farengar to skulk in the dust behind them. And, as is the case with all children, they turned on him, teasing and laughing at him while he struggled to do what came naturally to them: swordplay, fist fighting, and any display of physical might was a game even the youngest of Nord children took up at an early age. Any deviation from these unspoken, yet agreed-upon customs were considered strange and ridiculous. Of all the jeering Nord children of Whiterun, it could be easily said that Hjoed was the most vicious in his teasing of young Farengar. Hjoed was not particularly bright. He was two years older than Farengar, about a foot taller, and with hair about ten shades lighter. The older boy was broad set, and strong for his mere 13 years, even for a Nord. Even stronger was the hereditary sense of blood-pride that ran thick through his veins, never failing to shock and endear the townsfolk with the fervor of his stubbornness. Indeed, Hjoed was every child's favorite playmate: his sparring skills were unmatched by any, except perhaps Jon Battle-Born. Presently, the two well-matched boys were sparring in the smaller of the Battle-born’s paddock just beyond Smallcrest Farm.  
“That boy’ll bring pride to all Nords one day,” Farengar’s uncle, Mrynuuf reflected. The lean, graying man sat astride the bench opposite Farenger as the boy sat patiently at the worn wooden table. The jovial man had owned Smallcrest for forty years, and though it earned a modest living, and little excitement, he was found to be quite content with his simple life. He had married early, and waited late to father any children—- too late, in fact. Even so, Mrynuuf was unable to feel unhappy even without a son or daughter to pass on his name. He had little in terms of wealth, but he had land, and a good wife, a once golden-hairred woman who had shared a joyous, simple life with him ever since they had built Smallcrest together, and planted their first crop. Aefin herself stoked the fire across the room, before briskly before joining them.  
“Aye,” she replied, briefly assessing the status of the mock-fight taking place outside their window. “Or he’ll be just another massive thorn in the arse. Last thing we need is another would- be warrior strutting around drunk while the rest of us work.”  
“Woman, you worry too much,” the old man groaned, not without affection.  
“And worry I will, so long as there’s work to be done.” She shook her head and pulled a coin purse from her belt. She began to carefully count what remained of their scant wealth, occasionally making a short note on a slip of parchment. Mrynuuf had little interest in such mundane affairs, and it had always been Aefin who handled the business side of the farm, while Mrynuuf lovingly coaxed the soil into yielding fresh, hearty crops. It was an arrangement that worked well, and suited their distinct interests perfectly. Well-grounded Aefin was an ideal match for lighthearted Mrynuuf, who was so carefree in nature that he had never bothered to learn how to read.  
“Ah, the woes of a woman,” Mrynuuf said teasingly, casting a meaningful look at Farengar. He drew a slight smile from the boy, but Aefin swatted him lightly with a rag taken up from the bench next to her.  
“Haven’t you got some seed to plant?”  
Mrynuuf chuckled as he downed a half-filled tankard before leaving the table, then grabbed a linen pouch off a shelf by the door. He waved at Aefin and flashed her a jaunty smile as he stepped through the door and into the front garden.  
Aefin huffed as he closed the door behind him. “That man,” she swore affectionately. “Oh, Farengar, I forgot to ask—- did you hear any word from your parents this past week?”  
The boy shook his head, his shoulder length black hair brushing his thick brows as he glanced at her absently before returning to his previous amusement of watching Hjoed and Jon spar in the lush field outside. It had been nearly three weeks since the last time a courier had delivered a written message from Borrorn and Irsi Fjarrden. Farengar had been sent to live with his father’s sister and her husband on Smallcrest six months ago. His family hailed from Helgen, where his father ran a forge with his good friend, Durmuk Gro-Hungkesh, a gruff but peculiarly reflective Orc who helped teach Farengar’s two brothers: Bjorg and Yagthur. Bjorg was sixteen, and an adept smith already. Eight year old Yagthur was too young to work the fires, but showed promise with his technical understanding of the craft. Farengar had never shown any interest in his father’s work. When money became scarce, Irsi had taken a job at the local trading post, and Bjorg had been sent to Riften for an apprenticeship with Tyngerth. He was to be taught alongside Balimund, another Nord smithing prodigy. Farengar had been sent to live with his Aunt and Uncle.  
“If you can’t keep a forge lit, at least you could scrape by as a farmer,” Borrorn had said, as he had tossed Farengar and his few belongings into the first carriage to Whiterun.  
The ease with which his family had discarded him had stung like a rude slap. But Farengar had little choice in what was done with him. His family’s correspondence had become less and less frequent, until even Bjorg’s letters halted. Bjorg, who had done everything he could to try to keep their father from sending young Farengar away! But, Farengar supposed that he must be busy. Tyngerth was a demanding Master, and few of his apprentices stayed for more than a month. Farengar had heard news of Bjorg four month ago, when accompanying Mrynuuf to the Bannerd Mare to buy some salt from Hulda. The bar owner had inherited the place from her father recently, and was still rather young, only twenty- three. Hulda had been more than happy to impart rumors of Bjorg to Farengar, whom she was rather fond of.  
“They say Bjorg is making great strides in Riften,” she confided, as she pulled taut the strings of a large sack of salt. “Both he and Balimund have caught the attention of some rich Breton lord from Wayrest. He made an offer to each of them, but I hear that Tyngerth wants to keep Balimund for himself.”  
Farengar had beamed at the news of his brother’s success. Nobody, he thought, worked harder than Bjorg—- except maybe Aefin. But his happiness was tinged with bitterness as he realized that Bjorg would have to move all the way to High Rock. Bjorg seemed to be the only person in his immediate family who truly cared for him. It would be hard to see him go.  
Aefin sighed and shook her head. Her brother could be so callous. It’s true, Farengar seemed to have to work very hard in all he did, but at least he tried. He was determined, she thought, and had a sense of focus that was uncommon for a child—- or anyone, for that matter. He was fond of reading, and being on his own. He was certainly very intelligent. “Don’t mind your father, Farengar,” she said. “He’s always been slow to show his affections. He cares for you greatly. He just…doesn’t understand.”  
Farengar broke his gaze from Jon and Hjoed’s boyish duel, and fixed his heavy gaze on his aunt. She was once again struck by how…un-Nordic the child looked. More than once, she had wondered if the boy had split heritage. Irsi was not a disloyal woman, but even Aefin wouldn’t have blamed her if it had turned out that she had at one point betrayed Borrorn. Aefin remembered how cold her brother could be. That kind of person could drive the most patient woman to despair.  
“What do you mean, ‘he doesn’t understand’?”  
“Well,” Aefin carefully set down her quill, and looked at the dark-haired child. “My brother—-your father—- is a man who has very…particular…ideas about what people should and should not do. You are very different than he is, and he doesn’t understand it.”  
Farengar meditated on this for a moment. His eyes slid back to the window, but he had lost interest in Hjoed and Jon. “Am I really that strange?”  
The way he asked it was unnerving. Aefin thought it sounded emotionless, and removed. Distant. “You certainly are not like any Nord boy I’ve met before. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”  
He was quiet again for a time. “Maybe I‘m not a Nord,” he said lowly. “Maybe I’m Daedra spawn.”  
Aefin blinked in confusion. “What? Where did you hear that?” She was just as disturbed as she was amused.  
“Hjoed said that Nords who were born under the sign of the Serpent were cursed by Namira, because they are really his children in human form. And when they come of age, they dissolve into a wriggling pile of spiders and slugs and rotting things, and Namira drags them to Oblivion.”  
Aefin was speechless, and sat there completely frozen, struggling to comprehend not only the wildness of the fantasy, but the strange, matter-of-fact tone with which the boy recited it.  
“Completely stupid, isn’t he?” Farengar’s mouth flashed a superior smirk as he jumped up from the table suddenly, and ran outside to join his uncle.  
Aefin blinked. Was the child just trying to scare her, or had Hjoed really said those things? She breathed a heavy sigh, and shook her head. She didn’t know what to make of the child’s strange behavior, but she knew for a fact that Hjoed was not nearly intelligent enough to dream up such a fantasy. Either way, she sent a silent prayer to the gods that Farengar had the sense not to go around discussing the Daedra so freely. The townsfolk already though him strange—-they didn’t need to see him as dangerous, too.

 

The seventh of First Seed was a time of great and joyous celebration in Tamriel, and newly crowned Jarl Balgruuf had promised a spectacular festival in honor of the first planting since his father’s passing. There were to be merry folk, and colored lanterns, and heaps of sweets, and, most notably, fireworks. Balgruuf’s court mage, Norostian, was to oversee these festive fires. Everyone was excited—- there had never been fireworks in Whiterun before, and Farengar had a feeling that if someone were to spoil it, that someone would land himself in heaps of trouble. All he needed was a charged soul gem.  
Hjoed hadn’t really said those things about Daedra. Farengar had just wanted a quick way to escape an uncomfortable conversation, and bringing up Daedra seemed like it would do the job. He didn’t understand why everyone feared them so much. He privately thought that it had something to do with the Oblivion Crisis. Even though it had been 165 years, Farengar thought that a Daedric Prince trying to take over all of Nirn wouldn’t fade so quickly from people’s memories.  
He shrugged. He thought the Deadra were fascinating.  
His attention was drawn by a great clamor from the paddock on the other side of Smallcrest Farm’s low stone wall. Hjoed and Jon had broken into an argument. A grin spilt across Farengar’s thin face, and he crouched behind the wall, watching through a crack as the disagreement progressed.  
“I won, fair and square. I get to be the hero of Kvatch!” Hjoed raised his roughly hewn wooden sword into the air, mimicking a heroic pose of victory.  
“That wasn’t winning, that was cheating,” Jon snapped. The usually merry boy had his arms crossed across his chest. He was a few inches taller than Hjoed, but Hjoed outweighed him. Jon was far more nimble, and easily evaded the shorter boy’s hacking attacks, though he didn’t have quite as strong as a hit. Farengar personally admired Jon’s tactical fighting style more than the other’s. But then again, he loathed Hjoed.  
“Just what a loser would say,” huffed Hjoed. “Why don’t you just admit that you were defeated, like a true Nord?”  
“Why, you—-“  
A scuffle broke out, and the pair slid into the mud as each struggled to grapple the other to the ground. Farengar snickered as their hair, previously well groomed for the later festivities, became quickly caked with mud, grass, and wildflowers.  
“UGH! Look what you did!” Jon pushed of off Hjoed, raising his arms and looking down at his soiled attire. “My mother’s going to skin me like a rabbit!”  
Hjoed laughed.  
“Yours will skin you, too, you idiot,” Jon growled, shoving his playmate back into the mud as he stood up.  
Hjoed scrambled to his feet, and began kicking mud off of his shoes. Jon tried in vain to swipe the grass stains from his shirt, but sighed in frustration when he realized that they were likely to be permanent. Suddenly, his eyes fell on Farengar, whose face was just visible between two rocks in the wall.  
“Ah, Farengar!” The older boy smirked good-naturedly. “Doing a bit of spying, I see. Well, I hope you were entertained, because I certainly am not.” He looked grimly at his muddy boots, and shook his head.  
Reluctantly, Farengar stood up from his hiding spot, and settled for leaning against the wall. He normally tried to avoid Hjoed, but he simply couldn’t resist grinning at the boy’s sorry state. It wasn’t so often that Farengar had the upper hand in the teasing game.  
“Like a princess of the field, that one,” he smirked, nodding at Hjoed. His mud-flattened hair must have been ungracefully rolled into a flower patch at some point during the scuffle, because his chin-length blonde locks were littered with smashed flowers and tufts of grass.  
Jon laughed a deep, belly laugh, and Hjoed’s face flushed a vivid scarlet.  
“And as beautiful as a sunrise, too,” Farengar jeered. It felt good to be the one handing out abuse, rather than receiving it. “Look at all that red and yellow,” he laughed, referring to the boy’s yellow hair and blushing face.  
“Oh, look, the sun rises,” Jon crowed, as Hjoed’s face deepened to a violent maroon.  
Farengar, however, smelled trouble. “Indeed. And the moon flees.” He took off at a run, hiking up his trousers to keep the hems from dragging in the mud. Aefin always made his clothes a size or two bigger, so that he could grow into them, and this was a relatively new set.  
“Get back here, you slug!”  
Farengar bolted down the cobbled path, evading farmers and their families as they toiled about their land. He ducked under a log being carried by two men, nearly losing his balance and falling face first into the slush on the side of the road. Hjoed took the less direct approach, choosing instead to circumnavigate the two men and their load. Farengar willed his legs to move faster, speeding past Chillfurrow Farm and turning sharply to the right, Hjoed just three yards behind him.  
“Stop. Running,” Hjoed panted. Farengar laughed maniacally, though he himself was getting tired.  
“Maybe you’re the slug, flower boy!” Farengar called. Hjoed screamed in frustration, and he laughed again. Nothing was going to stop him—-he was invincible! Just as long as he stayed ahead of Hjoed—-  
CRASH.  
Farengar groaned as he disentangled himself from a body—-no, two. Had he run into somebody?  
“For Talos’ sake, can’t a man enjoy a drink without being harassed by some runt?” The guard shoved the boy off him, and staggered to his feet.  
“S-sorry,” gasped Farengar. It was fortunate that the guard was drunk—-too drunk to really care. His friends erupted into laughter as the boy staggered to his feet, lost his balance, and fell onto his backside.  
Flushing, he ignored the guards jeers and stood up again, steadying himself against Honningbrew Meadery’s fence. He was still slightly disoriented, but he cast his eyes around, searching for the other person he’d apparently ran into.  
“HA!”  
Farengar yelled as he was shoved face first into the mud, his breath forced out of his body as someone slammed on top of his back. He screeched as his head was roughly yanked up out of the dirt by his hair, holding the weight of his upper torso a half- foot off the ground. Farengar grabbed the arm of whoever had his fingers tangled in his hair, using his own strength to relieve his scalp of the weight of his body.  
“Caught you, runt!” Hjoed cackled as he jerked his prey’s head around, causing Farengar to yell in pain.  
Jon jogged up to get a closer look at the commotion, and laughed at the predicament.  
“What goes around comes around, I suppose,” he said. “Come on, put him down before you hurt him, Hjoed.”  
“Stay out of this, Jon!”  
The older boy snorted. “I think you’ve made your point. Let him go.”  
Farengar felt the hand release him, and he fell back forward into the mud. He struggled to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The guards laughed again, and he blushed furiously. Couldn’t he win, just once?  
Hjoed stalked away angrily, but Jon rolled his eyes and helped the fallen boy to his feet.  
“Bit off a bit more than you can chew, I think,” he said.  
Farengar just huffed in response, raking the mud and leaves out of his hair. He looked down at his trousers, and realized with dismay that they were just as caked as Jon’s.  
“Aefid’s going to kill me,” he said hollowly.  
Jon winced sympathetically. “Aye. I’d spend the day in the city, if I were you. Harder to find you there.” He gave his shoulder a friendly shove—-nearly knocking the smaller boy over in the process—- before running to catch up with Hjoed.  
***  
The lanterns had been strung up earlier that morning, and festive banners hung from every building, transforming the city into a series of multicolored blocks. The first of the caravans had yet to arrive, and the townsfolk were scattered about the streets, chatting and trading rumors and drinking mead as the city children darted between the many-legged crowds, laughing and chasing each other between houses and shops. Farengar watched as two men threw a decorative banner from the top of the wall just over the great doors to Whiterun. It unfurled like a flag, and the crowd below oohed and ahhed as the bright yellow and green stripes seemed to glow against the light gray stone. The doors had been thrown open, and garlands of spring roses had been draped and twined around every column, post, and pole in the city, making the whole place smell irresistibly of Spring. It had been a harsh Winter, and the scent was comforting and welcome. The women were gaunt, and the men, too, had lost much of their strength during the cold months. The children’s knees were knobby, and their faces lacked much of the flesh that their youth owed them. And yet the struggles of the past season had made the advent of Spring more wonderful—- never had there been a greater celebration of First Planting, and never had the mead ran so freely, and the laughter so easily.  
Transfixed by the vivid colors and cheerful drums and lutes permeating the scene with uncontrollable mirth, Farengar did not see two large Nord teenagers barreling towards him, and was thrown to the ground as they skidded to a stop in the exact patch of ground that, a moment ago, he had been standing on.  
“Oof!” He hit the ground hard, his lungs forcefully robbed of their breath for the second time that day. The two Nord boys stood over him, laughing.  
“Look, Vilkas! He’s actually grown! He is not so short now,” said one. He was swathed in light, thin, plated armor and leather greavers, and had wild, shoulder-length black hair.  
“Huh. More stretched out than ‘grown’, I think.” Vilkas was looking disdainfully down at the younger boy. He saw his brother’s huge grin and rolled his eyes.  
“Come on, whelp, stand up and fight!” Farkas barked a dog-like laugh, and threw a thin, metal training blade into Farengar’s hands. He raised his own, and beamed expectantly.  
Annoyed, Farengar turned the thing over in his hands, examining it at length until Vilkas interrupted.  
“Do you know how to use it, or not?”  
It was a simple enough question, designed merely to goad him into sparring, and the small boy’s hackles rose immediately in response. Truth be told, he had only ever swung a sword on his own, usually at a tightly packed bale of hay, or at the empty air. He had imagined dueling with a real person countless times, and had even invented a few moves of his own, hoping to give his light frame a more fair advantage against his broadly built peers. But, facing the prospect of an actual challenge, he felt himself shrink. These two brothers were especially intimidating, nearly four years older than he was, and probably three times his size.  
Better not, he thought with dissatisfaction. He hated to forfeit the game, but Farengar felt he had been thrown around enough in one day. Farkas was known to fight fairly, but the boy didn’t know his own strength. He’d crush me like a twig, he realized bitterly. But I have something else I need to do, anyway. Perhaps the two boys would help him out? At least Farkas would do what he asked without thinking…if Farengar agreed to duel with him. Vilkas was too smart to be dragged into his scheme, but he’d expect his brother to keep his word.  
“How about, if I spar with you, you help me with a little scheme of mine?” The dark-haired boy smiled humorlessly up at his would-be opponent.  
Farkas’ expression darkened, and he threw a look at his brother. Vilkas lowered his brow. “What kind of scheme, rat?”  
Farengar swallowed his irritation at the older boy’s degrading new nickname for him. “Oh, nothing big,” he said, keeping his tone light and dismissive. “Just a bit of fun. Spring should go off with a bang, you know?”  
He watched with satisfaction as Farkas stretched his mouth into a dopey smile. “I agree whole-heartedly! Spring is certainly a thing to celebrate! What’s wrong with a bit of harmless fun, brother?”  
Vilkas bored his gaze suspiciously into Farengar. “I don’t believe any scheme this rat dreams up is completely harmless,” he growled. “It’s the mark of a coward, working conspiracies like that.” This last statement was directed at Farengar.  
“Oh, brother, you think too much.” Farkas raised his blade in readiness, and beamed as he faced Farengar. “First one to fall, loses. Let’s see what you can do with that toothpick.”  
Farengar scarecly had time to nod in agreement before the larger boy bellowed and charged, sword aloft. Panic- stricken, he threw up his blade in an attempt to block, and nearly flew across the pathway from the force of the connection. Gritting his teeth, he lunged into the strike, before pushing off and retreating a short distance away, gripping tightly his weapon.  
“Nice block!” Farkas shouted in praise, as he charged again, this time aiming for a side-sweep, which Farengar barely dodged.  
This was a horrible idea, he thought. Panting, he dodged again, accidentally running into Vilkas. Disgusted, he shoved the small Nord back towards the fight. A small crowd had gathered, and merchants halted their haggling and cheered the two boys on as they spun around, the glint of their blades breaking across their laughing faces in the noon sun.  
“To him, Farkas!”  
“Make Kodlak proud, boy!”  
Cheered by the support, Farkas threw more of his strength into each blow. They rained down more and more swiftly, and Farengar was finding it harder and harder to dodge the relentless pursuit of his opponent’s offensive sweeps. Worse, he was growing tired.  
“Come on, throw in an attack of your own!” Shouted Farkas.  
“Easier said than done,” Farengar growled between his teeth. But he sliced angrily in Farkas’ general direction with surprising swiftness, his eyes widening as he felt the blow meet resistance before following through its path of momentum.  
The crowd “oooohed” as Farkas looked down at his chest, startled. The thin plating across his chest bore a newly inflicted long, thin scratch. Grinning, he charged again, and this time Farengar was unable to catch his blow. He ducked under the wide sweep, and darted across the path, his heart thudding in his throat as his opponent staggered and struggled to regain his balance. Inspired, the smaller boy leaped onto Farkas, throwing all of his weight and force against his back.  
“Argh!” They both stumbled towards the ground, and Farengar’s heart rose. He’s falling! Have I won?  
His wonder was stolen by an immense weight twisting beneath him, and then bashing him against the ground.  
The crowd cheered as Farkas lifted off of him. Vilkas was leaning against a barrel outside of Warmaiden’s laughing. Biterly, Farengar lifted himself off the ground, resting among the dust as Farkas raised his training blade in victory. Despite the fact that he had expected to lose to the future Companion Farengar was unable to banish his disappointment. Grimacing, he stood up, and began to take inventory of his various bruises. The crowd separated, the lively fight having further raised their spirits as they awaited the arrival of the caravans. It was a common Nord saying that Spring has not sprung until the young had dueled at least once.  
“That was a fight,” Farkas crowed. He clapped Farengar on the back, nearly throwing him back into the ground. “Congrats, my friend. It seems you have the true Nord spirit, after all.”  
“I had my doubts,” Vilkas said. “Still do. But I’ll be damned if I can’t recognize a good duel.” He nodded to Farengar, his suspicion for the boy dispersed…at least, for a while. “I’ll leave you two to your…scheming,” he said, as he strode down to the market.  
Farengar grinned very slightly. It seemed he had won the more serious twin’s respect. Although, that could easily change once his plan was enacted. He felt almost regretful about it.  
“So! How am I supposed help with this scheme of yours?”  
Farengar’s smile lengthened. “We need to sneak into the court mage’s quarters, and fetch a soul gem.”  
Farkas frowned. “Steal from the court mage? I am at your service, my friend, but that hardly seems an action of honor.”  
Oh, right. “Honor.” “Farkas, you’ve got it all wrong,” Farengar sighed impatiently. “It’s not stealing, really. Soul gems can be refilled. I’m sure plenty of the Companions have at least one piece of enchanted armor, or an enchanted weapon, right?”  
Farkas nodded uncertainly.  
“Well, where do you think the power for those enchantments come from? They’re from the souls of creatures defeated in battle.”  
Farkas mulled this over. “Like…spoils of war,” he said slowly.  
“…Yeah. Kind of.”  
“And these souls…” Farkas seemed to be struggling to understand. “They are the souls of the unworthy in battle?”  
“Right,” Farengar encouraged. “And once the soul is used up, the gem is empty—-ready to be filled again. So, we use the soul, and return the gem. No harm is done, you see?”  
Farkas seemed unconvinced, but nodded. “Very well, Rat,” he said uneasily. “I will help you.”  
Farengar internally cringed at the nickname—-it seemed like “Rat” would stick around for a while—-but pushed it aside. There was work to be done. “Excellent. Follow me.”


	2. A Tempered Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Young Farengar and his adventure in Whiterun. Be ready for plentiful interactions with young versions of characters we all know and love.  
> Also, I plan on incorporating a lot of lore as I continue this...so, I apologize in advance. Mostly just references to events from the past, and the conflict between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, but at this point that's purely political. I just find that it keeps me from forgetting stuff like that, which really enhances the whole Elder Scrolls storyline for me. If it's not your thing, I get it, but maybe check out the Third Era Timeline on uesp or the Imperial library.

Dragonsreach.

Farengar had been inside only once, when he followed at distance behind a traveling sellsword who was seeking thaneship from the Jarl. A bit of soot across the nose and cheeks, and dirt smeared over one eye, and he could easily pass for the man’s slave. The guards had eyed him suspiciously, but allowed him to follow behind his “master”, and Farengar had stolen to the shadows, hoping to find the place where Olaf had trapped the dragon centuries ago. There, above the Jarl’s throne, had been Numinex’s great skull. _So it’s true,_ Farengar had thought, as he’d knelt behind the railing of the upstairs, looking down upon the Jarl’s court. He _had_ to see the place where Olaf had trapped him. Unfortunately, a guard had caught him, and brought him before the sellsword, demanding that the man discipline his slave. The armored brute had scowled, proclaiming that he’d never seen the boy before in his life. Embarrassed, the guard had dragged Farengar out of the palace by his ear, and threw him into the water beneath Dragonsreach’s bridge. 

_That was last Autumn,_ Farengar thought. _It won’t happen again. I know exactly where to go this time, and I have Farkas to help me. He’d better not get in the way, the idiot._ He looked back at Farkas. The two of them were crouched next to the walkway that led to Dragonsreach, just a few yards away from the door. The guards were scarce due to the day of celebration.

“What now?” Farkas looked very guilty. This could be a problem.

“I need you to get me in there,” Farengar said. He was staring intently at the door, as though he could will it open by the mere focus of his gaze. 

“I don’t know why you need me for that. The door is always unlocked.”

Farengar closed his eyes and repressed a sigh. _Is he messing with me, or is he really that stupid?_ “But if I go in there,” he said very slowly, impatience getting the best of him, “They will be suspicious. I don’t _belong_ in there. I am not a noble, or a warrior. But _you_ are. You are Kodlak’s ward. The Jarl will trust you. I just need you to distract him, and any guards.”

“How will I do that?”

_Must I do everything myself?_ “Just—- say that you were curious about the—- the Riften Rebellion.” _A future warrior asking about the Jarl’s past experiences is surely plausible._

Recognition dawned on Farkas’ face. “Jarl Balgruuf led a group of men to try to stop that rebellion.”

“Yes, he did. Ask him why he wanted to help Hosgunn Crossed-Daggers. He was Riften’s Jarl at the time.”

Farkas looked dubious, but nodded. “I could do that. But how will you get in?”

“Just wait inside the palace until I arrive. Pretend to look at the huge dragon skull above the Jarl’s throne. When I arrive, I’ll give you the signal, then you should start talking to the Jarl.”

“Alright.” Farkas seemed unhappy about this plan. “This sounds a lot like a thieve’s errand, but I am a man of my word.”

“Excellent. The signal is, ‘Olaf can wait’. Got it?”

“‘Olaf can wait’…that is strange, but okay.”

“Just go with it. Now let’s get started.” Farkas nodded, and strode into the palace. When a few minutes later, Farkas had not reappeared, Farengar left their hiding spot and headed briskly down to the Gildergreen. There was a very certain guard there, who would gladly, but unknowingly, assist him with his scheme. 

Telcius Caius. Farengar had first met him when the man had literally thrown him out of Dragonsreach the _last_ time he’d tried to sneak into the place. But, that _was_ last Autumn, Farengar reasoned. He’d learned since then…sort of. Caius had committed himself to personally intervening in all of Farengar’s schemes. He had faced utter embarrassment when he’d drug the boy before that sellsword, interrupting the previous Jarl—- Balgruuf’s late father—-in order to request that discipline be arranged for his ‘slave’. The man hadn’t quite swallowed that humiliation, and the other guards still teased him for it. Farengar was surprised that Caius hadn’t been watching him today as he ran through the city. He usually made a special point to keep an eye on the boy, and for good reason. Approaching the Gildergreen, Farengar very quickly saw why he had not yet had the displeasure of having to shake Caius off his tail: a russet- haired woman, short in stature, with kohl-darkened eyes and very, very red lips. She twirled shamelessly in front of Caius and three other guards, performing some kind of exotic dance, sweeping her hips and her thin skirt in time to a small drum tucked under her arm, and the jingling of chimes that hung across her collarbones. Her hair was loosely restrained by a metal cuff, and her white teeth shone from her tanned, rose lips as she laughed and spun from the greedy reach of one of the soldiers. Farengar had heard of the Redguard’s special dances, and seen illustrations of them in books. This woman, however, was decidedly of Bosmer heritage. Her pixiline features and blithe, thin frame varied sharply from the full-figured, strong-armed bodies of the women of Hammerfell. 

_I need to get Caius’ attention,_ Farengar thought. He ducked behind a bench beside the Gildergreen, ignoring the giggles of a young couple from within the bush framing the bench next to his. Caius was transfixed by the woman’s dance. It would take a grand gesture to get the effect Farengar desired. He turned to watch a priest as she emerged from the temple of Kynareth, carrying a bundle of fragrant lavender. The woman disappeared into the Graymane house, and Farengar recognized a moment of great opportunity—- he slipped from behind the tree and stole into the temple. 

_Then again, a subtle action is more convincing,_ he thought. He bent down to roll up the hems of his muddied trousers before stealing into Kynareth’s worship space. The temple was cool and moistened with the sound of the shallow fountains in the center of the room. Stone beds edged the inner circle of the room, where during times of plague or war priests would tend the wounds of men, women and children. Skyrim hadn’t seen any war strife for quite a while. The only trouble that fell upon the ears of the North were of disputes between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, but those were mostly just occasional flashings of political power, and far removed from the lives of all but the Jarls and the High King. Rather than the wounded, the beds presently held offerings to Kynareth: bundles of flowers, hawk feathers, ripe fruits and sealed scrolls with prayers written on them. Most notable was a finely carved wooden box, laid with glittering emeralds. Farengar gingerly pieced it up, throwing a quick glance around the room just to be sure that he was truly alone. He pried apart its decorated jaws, exposing dusty green bottles wrapped in cloth. _This will do._ He snapped the box shut.

***

 

“Hey, Telcius, isn’t that the ‘slave’ that you threw out of the palace?” 

“Eh?” The soldier grunted, and looked to where his comrade’s eyes had fallen. His gaze darkened as he noted he bulge underneath the boy’s shirt. 

The third guard saw this, too. “Looks like your lad’s got something.”

Telcius Caius downed the last of his drink. “Let’s got take a look, shall we?”

“Careful, you don’t want to make a fool of yourself again.”

“ _Shut up,_ Mori.”

The three fell into a brisk walk, and followed the boy through the crowds, Caius’ eyes never leaving his target. A plump woman shoved into his view, causing him to hiss with frustration as he craned his neck, trying to spot the boy in the clamor. The caravans had arrived, and the doors to Whiterun, though thrown widely open, seemed to struggle to admit the carts of people and wares from all across the land. The pulse of drums forcefully urged the stream of travelers onward, growing louder as their tempo quickened to match the quick steps and frenzied shouts and laughter of the newcomers, their children skipping in their wake as they drug leashed dogs behind them, or else poked scraps of meat into cages full of strange, exotic creatures. Telcius scowled, bringing his forearm up to shield his face from the afternoon sun. The runt was nowhere to be found.

“There—-look! Look at that woman!” Mori nearly knocked over a small child in his eagerness to point out the young woman who rode atop a speckled horse, her chin-length blonde hair resting regally against high cheekbones. “That one looks like an elf!”

“An elf, in Whiterun? Last thing we need is some highborn goldskin tainting our city,” replied the other.

Telcius smacked his gauntlets against the second’s face, mouth drawn into a tight line. “You fools. Have you ever _spoken_ to an Altmer?”

“‘Course not,” he snapped. A welt was rising from his pale cheek. “I’ll bet you were an Altmer’s lap dog back in the Capital, weren’t you? Damn Imperials are slaves in their own city.”

Caius was just about to set Mori’s record straight about Imperials and High Elves, and for good, when he spotted a mop of blackish hair bobbing through the sea of lighter colored Nord heads. _There he is!_ Farengar was shoving, clambering, crawling between and under the waves of people, clutching tightly to the bulge in his shirt. _He’s definitely got something._

“Come on,” Caius ordered gruffly, before diving into the mob. Had he been of any higher status than a common soldier, the sea would have parted for him—-but, as it was, he and his two companions had to fight their way through the thick current of celebrating people, following after the boy, who seemed to be making his way towards the fruit stand in the market. Caius gasped for breath as he split a narrow path between a fat man and his gaunt wife, nearly choking in the stench of reeking commoners. Caius was not nobly born himself, but at least he made an effort to keep clean. In Cyrodiil, only beggars skipped baths. Upon arriving in Skyrim a year ago, it had been the lack of concern for cleanliness that had shocked Caius even more than the cold. The cities of Cyrodiil would be breeding grounds for every plague the Daedra dare send if its citizens had not been taught to keep scrupulously clean from a young age. 

“I can’t see him, Tel. Let’s just give up.”

“The boy _has_ something. As guards, it is our duty to protect—-“

“For _Kyne’s sake,_ Telcius, _get a girl._ I certainly plan to get myself at least three before that night’s done.”

Caius sighed impatiently. “If you can’t catch a boy thief, how do you expect to catch a woman?”

Mori rolled his eyes, but joined Caius in scanning the crowd. The caravans had began to set up in the marketplace, and the density of people lining the street loosened as they rushed to look over the wares that had been transported from all across Tamriel. A few groups exited Whiterun, heading toward the stables to visit the Khajiit traders. Balgruuf’s city remained closed to the cats of Elsweyr. Breton craftsmen offered High Rock steel, greatly popular among Nords. Their wares were guarded by armored men and women armed with shortswords and, most likely, deadly spell craft. A family of Argonians called a few young people to their stand, coaxing their coins from them with displays of exquisite jewelry and decorative daggers. A group of Dunmer sold spices and vegetables found only on Solsthiem, and a Bosmer man corrected the form of a young archer while his partner selected a set of arrows for a customer. Their daughter sat atop a pile of boxes, calling to the Nord children as they threw old fruit at each other, which had rotted on the long journey. And there, at last, hidden by the long skirts of a pair of conversing Reguard women, crouched Farengar, a bundle clutched in his hands, and a smoking piece of wood in another. 

“There—-approach him slowly.” Caius directed his comrades to advance forward, as he crept around to ambush the boy from behind. _What is the boy doing? What has the runt stolen?_

Caius’ thoughts were interrupted by the two Redguard women, who both suddenly started to cough. Violently.

_“What—-“_ She doubled over, taken by a fit of dry coughs. “What is that smell?”

The coughs spread across the marketplace, and Caius squinted as violet fumes washed across his sight, drawing a bout of coughs as he struggled to walk forward and grab the boy. 

“Ugh— _ugh—what—-ugh_ —-what has he done?” The rhythm of friendly haggling was punctuated with the sound of coughing. “What the _Oblivion_ did that boy light?” He saw him then, disappearing up the steps to the Wind District. Coughing, he staggered after him.

“Not so fast, _boy!_ ” Caius, nearly blinded by the fumes, reached out and grappled Farengar’s hair, causing him to scream in pain and surprise as the soldier lost his balance and fell to the ground, dragging the boy with him. He pinned him against the paved stone as he turned to cough again, and swiped at his watering eyes. _Thank Talos, I can see!_ _What has the runt done?_

“Telcius, you got ‘em! Good man,” panted Mori, as he staggered up the steps with the third soldier behind him. 

Caius ignored him. “What have you done now, boy? What did you do?” He shook him slightly, his eyes stained red from the fumes.

Mori suddenly burst into laughter, coughing and wheezing harder when he caught Caius’ wounded and bewildered expression. “You dimwit,” he snickered, coughing again. “You mean to tell me that you’ve never smelt _skooma_ before? What the hell do they smoke in the Imperial City? _Books?”_

Mortified, Caius turned to Farengar. “Is this true, child? Did you intentionally disrupt the afternoon celebrations with… _illegal substances_?”

His questions were met with a smug grin, and taunting gray eyes.

“Blast! Where does a _boy_ get skooma?” Shaking his head in disgust, he yanked Farengar upright. There was only one thing he could do. “The Winter has only just ended, and already you’re causing trouble. I think the Jarl will want to see you, boy.”

“The _Jarl_? Come on, Tel, just let ‘em go.”

“I cannot do that, my friend. Boy’s broken the law, and needs to be set straight.” He frowned hard at Farengar. “The punishment for transporting or using skooma is imprisonment. The length of the sentence is up to the Jarl. Best pray he’s in a good mood.” Gripping Farengar’s upper arm, he started for the steps leading up to Dragonsreach.

“What—- Telcius, you’re not serious?”

“We have no choice, Gordin. I will handle this. The two of you enjoy the festivities.” 

***

Things were happening well, so far, but Farengar had decided that the skooma trick was a bit overboard. Caius’ face was set grimly as he lugged him up the steps, his grip on the boy’s arm never once loosening. He looked very upset. Maybe Farengar _had_ gone toofar this time. But still, what in the world was a bunch of _skooma_ doing in a temple, for gods’ sake? Farengar figured that he was doing a bit of public service by incorporating the stuff into his personal plans. It _would_ take a boy lighting the stuff in public to unveil the presence of skooma in the city, wouldn’t it? The guard in Whiterun was such a joke.

The doors to the palace were of beautifully polished carved wood, and they caught the light nicely as they swung open to admit the soldier and the boy criminal. A servant was sweeping the entryway, but she halted her task to watch the two-man procession into the hall, her dusty broom held slack in her hand as she tracked their progress up the steps, and between the great tables where a large fire danced merrily in the lit room. Around this fire, and then Caius stopped in front of the raised platform upon which the Jarl’s throne sat, upon which Balgruuf himself lounged. His eyes narrowed as Caius approached, and he sat up, leaning forward to better see the soldier’s face. Casting his eyes around the room and struggling to hide his excitement, Farengar found the entrance to the Mage room, where there was bound to be a plethora of soul gems, ripe for the taking. He looked quickly back at Balgruuf, who inclined his head regally, prompting Caius to begin.

The soldier didn’t catch the hint, and glanced at Proventus Avenicci, the new steward, who stood some feet away from the Jarl. Farengar tried to kick Caius to clue him in—-he was short on time, after all—-but the Jarl was more impatient than he.

“Well, speak.”

Caius seemed to swallow nervously before beginning. “I come before you, Jarl Balgruff, to…to report a crime.”

“Do you? What has this boy to do with it?” He eyed Farengar, surveying him from beneath wild eyebrows. “Surely he is not the heinous criminal you have apprehended?”

A light tittering passed through the court, and Caius flushed. “He is, my Jarl. Let me explain.”

“Please, do.”

“This boy,” he began, “got his hands on a store of skooma. He lit it, with full knowledge of its affects, in the public marketplace, disrupting the business of the citizens and caravans.”

The Jarl’s attention was piqued at this news, and Farengar held his breath as he waited for his reply. “…I see. Is this true, boy?”

Farengar pulled at his arm, but Caius only tightened his grip in response. Scowling, the boy looked up at the Jarl. “Not entirely.”

“You will address your Jarl appropriately, boy, or you will find yourself undeserving of his mercy,” Proventus said shortly.

“It is fine, Proventus.” The young Jarl waved away his steward’s protests. “He is a boy.”

“A boy who somehow got his hands on an illegal potion and set it loose to disrupt the public on an important festival day! What will the caravans say to the next towns they visit? That Whiterun cannot control its youth? This… _child_ threatens the stability of your new Jarlship.”

“I highly doubt that the other holds will pay such an event much attention. There are more pressing concerns for the Jarls to deal with these days. At most, this boy has inspired a light rumor to pass through the inns. Hardly something to dethrone a Jarl.”

Proventus seemed to hold back his reply as he nodded in reluctant concurrence. “Yes, my Jarl.”

“But that does not mean that this is not a situation I must handle.” Balgruuf nodded at Caius. “You have done me a great service. I am impressed with your concern of Whiterun—-Caius, is it? I want you to lead a small party to search Whiterun for the source of this skooma. Three other men should do it. Just be sure not to raise alarm.”

Caius flushed from the Jarl’s praise, but released Farengar’s arm so he could achieve a slight bow before joining a few guards that had been ordered under his temporary command. Farengar couldn’t help but smirk at the young man’s excitement, though he admitted that the eager Imperial hid it well. 

“Check outside Whiterun first—-the Khajiit,” Proventus suggested.

“No,” Balgruuf ordered. “You will go about this justly and routinely. I’m more concerned that the other holds see Whiterun as a haven for prejudice than a skooma den. This is not Windhelm.”

Proventus reddened slightly, but waved his hand impatiently at Caius, silently bidding him to leave. 

Balgruuf watched as Caius led the small party through Dragonsreach’s grand doors, his chin resting thoughtfully on steepled fingers. He blinked, and refocused on the child before him. “Now…tell me, child. Why have you done this?”

Farengar turned to meet his Jarl’s gaze. “I found the skooma in the temple of Kynareth.”

“In the temple?” Jarl Balgruuf’s eyebrows shot into a scowl. “Where?”

Undeterred by the great man’s sudden change in temper, Farengar replied, “Someone left it as an offering. In a jeweled wooden box, set with huge emeralds. I…” he faltered slightly. “I just wanted to see if it was true, what they say about skooma. That it makes people act differently?” Farengar couldn’t help but lower his gaze. It was true—- he’d always been curious about the effects of the potion.

“I see,” the Jarl’s clear voice was tinted with a hint of a chuckle. “And now do you understand why it is banned in the Empire?”

Farengar nodded, his head still ducked in embarrassment. “I heard—- I heard that it’s made of Moon Sugar Nightshade. And that the Khajiit believe that Moon Sugar is really crystallized moonlight, caught in the reflection of the Topal Sea.” A quick glance upwards revealed a wide grin spread across Balgruuf’s face. 

“Fond of alchemy, are you?”

“And history,” Farengar said quickly. An avid interest in alchemy was too often associated with dabbling in magic. And magic was very un-Nordic. 

“I see,” the Jarl said. “And what of magic, boy?”

Farengar looked up at the Jarl, startled. “I am a Nord,” he said indignantly. “I don’t need magic.”

Proventus seemed disturbed by Farengar’s tone. “My Jarl, forgive me, but what do you plan on doing with this boy?”

“Oh, Proventus. It is too rare that I come across a Nord child with such and interest in learning. Surely you can understand? Cyrodiil is very different than here.”

“Well, yes…but this boy has broken the law.” 

“Indeed. And, if my sources are right, he plans on breaking the law again.” 

Farengar’s stomach dropped as Balgruuf’s clear, piercing eyes surveyed him from beneath his crowned brow, the gems of Whiterun’s jeweled helm reflecting pinprick of torchlight in their green depths. _Does he know about my plan to steal the soul gem? How could—-oh…Farkas._ His jaw set, Farengar threw his livid gaze across the room in a frantic search for his betrayer. 

“I dismissed Farkas,” the Jarl said. “Now, tell me. What exactly were you planning to do with one of my court mage’s soul gems?”

“I—-“ He hadn’t planned on being caught, and certainly not in this manner. “I—-Hjoed—-“

“Hjoed? Ah, yes. I heard about your little skirmish this morning. A rather disgruntled guard _informed_ me of it as I attempted to enjoy my morning meal.”

“I wanted to get revenge on him,” Farengar admitted. It was a surreal experience, admitting his schemes to the jarl. But he had been found out. Hopefully, he would evade severe punishment by being truthful. Unfortunately, he would have to be _entirely_ truthful since he didn’t know how much Balgruuf knew. “He’s always teasing me and pushing me around, because I can’t fight and I read too much.” The boy spoke to the muddy knee of his pants, too ashamed to make these admissions while looking directly at the Jarl. 

“And how would a soul gem achieve your end?”

“Norostian’s fireworks are fueled by soul gems. Sparks are created when the charge of the soul gem is attracted to a rune, or another soul gem. I…borrowed his notes,” Farengar admitted weakly. “I just wanted to borrow a really small one—-just enough to give Hjoed a shock. Keep him inside for a few days. A petty soul would have that affect, it’d just make his muscles sore. And…keep him from swinging a sword.” He swallowed nervously, and looked around the great room. The court had been listening in. The servants had stopped their work, and a few thanes, fully outfitted in their armor, had halted their conversation to glare suspiciously at the child. Proventus, too, was frowning thoughtfully at Farengar. 

The Jarl was quiet for a moment, then stood. “Such an inquisitive mind is dangerous,” he boomed. “It is like a sword.” He seemed to be addressing the room at large now. “It must be tempered.” He looked down at Farengar. “Proventus,” he barked.

“My lord?”

“Bring me a quill, and some parchment.”

“Very well.”

Farengar didn’t know where to look as he stood waiting for the Jarl’s instruction. The eyes of the court were still fixed on him, and the silence was broken by the undercurrent of low voices, deep with suspicion. Cheeks flaming, legs sore from standing so stiffly at attention, he felt sick to his stomach. They had always thought him odd, but now, his interests had drawn their engrained hostilities toward all things arcane from within their deep wellspring of Nordic heritage. 

“Here, boy. Take this to your aunt and uncle.”

Hands shaking, knees weak, the child reached for the sealed note. What horrible fate was too grotesque to announce in front of the court?

“It contains your sentence.” Jarl Balgruuf stood. “I, Balgruuf, Jarl of Whiterun, son of Banegrun the Great, blood of Olaf the hero, do declare your written sentence, by my word and honor. Now go.”

Farengar stumbled numbly out of the way as his Jarl descended the platform and walked between the tables, Proventus at his heels. A young servant girl threw a ceremonial cloak across Balgruuf’s broad shoulders, and clasped it with rough string made from the first of the year’s wheat harvest, as was custom. The court followed behind him, their feet just brushing the embroidered train of their lord’s loud, yellow garment, each of whose corners was held by a young servant: a young man and a young woman. Each was tall and fair haired, nude but for a dark green cloth draped across each of their strong bodies. It was the Planting Procession, the beginning of the evening’s celebrations. They paid no mind to the boy still standing in front of the Jarl’s throne, knees shaking beneath the roughly stitched hemline of his oversized shirt. The note in his hand quivered with the spastic fluttering of his heart. He had a bad taste in his mouth. The doors to Dragonsreach clasped shut, and the sharp staccato reverberated harshly between the carved pillars, slapped against the faces of the high walls. 

The palace was empty, and Farengar was left alone with the wisps of his nervous breath. 

 

***

 

There was no use in delaying it. Farengar slipped through the palace doors, clambered from shadow to shadow, crouching behind lavender bushes and houses, until he reached the plain-side wall in the Wind Distrcit. He easily climbed to the other side, thus avoiding the guards likely posted at Whiterun’s gates. It was dangerous, being on the far side of the wall, but at the moment, the small Nord boy was too terrified to take such things into consideration. His hands were cold. His heart still hammered, and the crescendo rose drastically as he reached the fence ofSmallcrest farm, causing him to hold tightly the fence gate as he fought back a sob of fear. What did the Jarl have in store for him? He had heard of the terrible punishments that Jarls and Kings often used to control their people: torture, backbreaking labor, humiliation, imprisonment in skeever infested cells caked inches deep with rot and disease. The way Balgruuf had announced his written sentence to the court—-it was like he was making an example out of him. Balgruuf was a new Jarl and was not yet used to his power…but his command would still stand. Young rulers would often take drastic measures in their inexperience—-Farengar knew this—-and his stomach grew weak with the thought of wasting away into a corpse in the Dragonsreach dungeon among thieves, killers, bandits and rapists, bunking with true criminals who would squeal with joy at the idea of abusing a weak young boy. 

“Farengar! Oh, thank Kynareth! But—-oh, what’s wrong, child?”

The boy allowed Aefin to usher him inside the house. Night was falling. The city would be illuminated by torchlight, and writhing with the sounds of cheers and joy. First Planting had come. 

“What happened to your clothes? By the gods, you’d think I enjoy making soap, for all the washing up I have to do. Why you children can’t play nicely—-“ She knelt down to wipe smudged dirt off of her nephew’s face. Concerned by his lack of speech, she framed his thin face with her rough, warm hands, and peered into his dark eyes. “Farengar. What happened?”

Words had failed him. But the Jarl had written out all that needed to be said. He wrenched a weary arm from its safe place by his side, and presented the creased note to his aunt. It was colored orange by the hearth fire, resting heavily on his upturned palm. Aefin took it, and broke the wax seal by the flames, squinting at Balgruuf’s script as it shivered in the flitting shadows. 

“Oh!”

Farengar was unable to move his head to look at his aunt as she read the note. His neck was stiff. He didn’t want to see her face when she read his doom, for to see his horror reflected on her face would make the nightmare real, and would only serve to verify the end of his life as he knew it. He bowed his head, swallowing hard, trying to force down his nausea. 

“No—- _Farengar!”_ She was shocked and angry. The boy closed his eyes. No—-he would not look at her face. He couldn’t…

“Oh!” A faint exclamation of surprise, and her footsteps approached him at last. But he kept drawn shut his eyelids.

“My child,” she said softly. She stroked his hair. She was close, and he could feel her warmth. How disappointed must she be? She had tried her best to raise him. Without children of her own, Aefin had taken Farengar under her wing and admitted him into her family as easily as if he had always been destined to be there.

“You must be ready. You will leave early tomorrow morning. If this is true—-oh, but it is——Jarl Balgruuf himself commands it.” Her voice quavered. “The Jarl must think that you are deserving of this, and…well, I suppose I agree. I’ve been waiting for something like this, Farengar. I knew that _something_ would happen.”

He wrenched open his eyes, his pulse jumping to his throat. “W-what?” 

“Haven’t I always told you that you’re different? I was right. I always am, about these things. I only wish I had known sooner. I could have made things much easier on myself.”

He was dazed. What did she mean? Farengar could feel himself falling, but his eyes were blinded by blotches of black ink dancing spreading across his vision, it edges burning purple and shaking like static as he slumped against his chair—-had she always felt that way? The blushing chimes of Nirnroot roared in his ears as the blots recede from his vision, and he saw Aefin’s lips moving, her brow knit as she spoke to him, but all he could hear was the empty plunking of his heartbeat as he stared numbly up at her. 

_“Farengar!”_ She was mouthing his name. _“Farengar!”_

“Farengar!” 

He blinked as his hearing returned. Had he passed out?

“Divines, child! You scared me! Here—-drink.”

He only stared at the horn mug she pushed into his hands. It was over. He just wanted to know his sentence. What did Balgruuf plan to do with him? 

“What will he have done to me?” He internally winced at the weakness of his voice. 

“Who?”

“ _Balgruuf,”_ he spat. He set the mug down, and drew himself up from his seat. “Well? what will it be?” He crossed his arms as he stared imperiously down at her. “Laboring in some filthy mine? Languishing in some iron cage somewhere?”

“What—-“

“Oh, just say it already,” he snapped. He turned away from the woman. “Make it… _easier_ for both of us.”

“What in Nirn are you talking about boy?”

“My punishment!” He whirled to face her. _How can she be so stupid? So cruel?_ “Just tell me! I don’t _care_ if you expected this—-just—-“

“Punishment?” 

He halted at her expression. Her confusion seemed genuine. What, then—-?

“My child,” she sighed loudly. “My dear, insolent, confused child. Balgruuf’s _punishment_ is to serve as Norostian’s apprentice! To learn from him—-to succeed him as court mage, one day, if you study hard enough. Did Balgruuf not tell you?”

“Wha—- _a-apprentice?_ ”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Did you think I was expressing _happiness_ for your imagined punishment? By the Eight and Talos, I would devour an army if some _Jarl_ wanted to throw you to waste in his filthy cells.”

“But…he said—-my _sentence—-“_

“Well, it _is_ a mandatory service.” Aefin untied her apron, and sat in the chair across from Farengar. “He seems…concerned. He worries that without instruction, your fascinations will lead you astray. With a proper education, he hopes to avoid this.”

“To…’temper’ me,” Farengar said, remembering.

“Yes, he said exactly that.”

The two were quiet for a moment. It was fully night. In Whiterun, the Jarl would have ascended the wall to stand above the wide city doors, trailed by the young man and woman, wrapped in green, and the servant girl, carrying a torch. Beneath the torchlight, the young woman would loose her male friend’s garments just enough to expose his shoulders, and would paint him with yellow warpaint. The man would take the torch from the servant girl, and hold it aloft as the young Nord woman knelt before the Jarl. Traditionally, she would let the garment fall from her back, and the green fabric would stay secured round her neck and draped down her front as the Jarl anointed her with yellow and green paint, before handing her the torch. The Maiden of the Seeds would catch the hem of Balgruuf’s cloak alight, and he would loose it from his neck and let it fall onto the cold stone wall, the crowd cheering as the ceremonial winter cloak was consumed by the life-flames of Spring. It was over—-the freezing times were over!

“What does a court mage’s apprentice do?” Farengar mused as he gazed into the light of the fire. 

“Beat me,” his aunt shrugged. “It’s not something I’m very knowledgable about. Norostian served Balgruuf’s father from the beginning, you know. He’s been around long enough to know what he’s doing.”

“And who taught Norostian?”

She shrugged again, and pierced a length of cloth with her sewing needle. Farengar felt a twinge of guilt as he wondered if Aefin was making him a new pair of trousers, since he had ruined his. “Probably some mane back in High Rock, but I don’t know specifics.” She returned to her sewing for a time, but eventually looked back at Farengar and smiled. “Your uncle will be annoyed. ‘What will a mage do with a farm?’ he’ll say.”

Farengar laughed. “Well, he might be pleased. I’m an awful farmer. I’m awful at most everything, except for reading.”

“Well,” Aefin sighed, her eyes smiling as she looked at her work. “Then you’ll make a successful mage, to be sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, these chapters seem way longer on Pages.   
> Was the "punishment" too predictable? I did try to conceal the obvious, but I don't know how well I did.  
> So, apparently there is "hidden" dialogue for when Balgruuf's brother, Hrognar, becomes Jarl (an even that was omitted from the final product). I personally like Balgruuf. He's my second favorite Jarl (my first favorite is Idgrod Ravencrone) and seeing this omitted dialogue shed some light on his brother. It's...interesting. Let's just say, Balgruuf makes a far better jarl. Here's the source: http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Hrongar


	3. Three Dead Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after an eight month hiatus, I've decided to get back to writing. I have a more clear direction about where I'm going with this story now, and I'm excited to introduce more familiar characters and really flesh them out. I know this is short--this is a kind of prelude of what's to come, an essential "setting the scene" type of chapter. Please, enjoy, and don't be afraid to critique.

“Have you heard about that mage boy?” 

Fianna glanced at the young nord girl as she continued sweeping the great, oak-floored kitchen. Unbearably chatty, she was—-all Fianna wanted was to finish sweeping quietly and swiftly, so that she could head back down to the servant’s quarters and fix herself some tea. Myra, that was her name—-she’d come to Dragonsreach a few months ago, from a poor family in Riften. Thin as rod, she was, with hair as lank as soiled cloth, and lacking the overall sheen and vitality that her age should have given her. She must have come from a truly dire situation, looking in such bad shape and coming from Riften, no less! Although the girl’s constant chatting grated on her time-worn nerves, Fianna thought privately to herself that there were far worse things a girl of her age could be, as it didn’t take any amount of natural beauty to be a whore. The men in Riften weren’t as picky as they were corrupt—-or so she’d heard, several decades ago. Nobody had told her that the place was any different than it had been since she’d been there one summer half a century ago in her own girlhood, so she assumed it had remained unchanged. 

“What boy?” Fianna sighed. Her back was seizing up from bending over. She straightened and tenderly rubbed the muscles on either side of her spine, and stretched carefully. 

“The strange one. Gerda told me all about ‘im—-quite the trouble when he was younger, I heard, and peculiar in a number of ways.” Myra had been wiping the counters, but had stopped to lean against a wall with a tapestry draped across it. Fianna hissed and waved her hands wildly—-that tapestry predated Balgruuf’s grandfather!—-and the poor girl jumped away from it.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your work, instead of drowning your ugly ears in gossip,” Fianna barked. It was a harsh thing to say, but Fianna had never been beautiful herself: she had been too thin, like Myra, and her features had lacked the allure of most other girls her age. She had fooled herself for years into thinking that she was beautiful, in a strange, yet charming way, and all her dreaming had caused her to chase a man who abhorred her. Better to tell the girl now, she thought, so that at least she knows where she stands. 

“Oh, but Fianna—-but that was years ago,” she breathed. “He apprenticed here under Norostian, then went on to that college, you know the one up north, for mages—-do you reckon he’s quite handsome, now?“

“This entire province is ‘up north’, dear. Oh, why don’t you just finish those counters? You’re unbearable, is what you are. Unbearable.” 

They finished their work silently, to Fianna’s relief. The floors were swept and counters scrubbed, the cabinets dusted and every inch of carved wood polished to a glimmer. Myra was tall in her youth, and able to reach the highest shelves to put away fine silver plates as Fianna cleaned them meticulously. This palace was her temple, and she would not stand for a speck of dust in the place. When they were finished, Fianna made them a pot of tea there in the kitchen, because it was the dead of winter and the servant’s rooms may as well have been sculpted of ice. The task of cleaning had tired her, so Myra poured a cup for each of them, and they sat before the dying embers, quite alone in their thoughts, and for the most part content. Fianna had heard of the mage boy—-although now, she supposed he’d be a man. Norostian had grown from gray to white these past two years, and yearned more and more for his birth town in High Rock. A few months ago he had sent word to the college to persuade his former student to take his place as Balgruuf’s court wizard, which he had accepted, on grounds that Balgruuf himself wanted him there. The jarl had agreed, and asked that Farengar arrive as soon as he could manage. But the snow had been relentless, and as weeks crept by, the palace filled with rumors of what had become of the mage boy since he had left two years ago. She had grown tired of the rumors, and tired of hearing about this boy—-the only opinion she cared to share on the topic was that he hurry up and arrive, so that the endless, pointless speculation would stop. Fianna had heard many things, of course, but being a shrewd woman, she was easily able to determine which rumors were more likely to be true, and of course she’d known him when he was a boy. Five years he had learned under Norostian, and five years the child had been a thorn in her side. She had never met a more disagreeable, untidy being in all her life. By the time he left when he was around sixteen, he had gone from insolent to surly, and had taken up the habit of moping the halls at strange hours of the night. She’d caught him “reading” in odd places, in closets, up in the rafters, down in the cellars and even in the prison. Gods know what he was really doing, she had thought, but he’d slunk away as soon as she’d found him, book tucked under his arm, and a bag with clanking objects, often smelling of ash. It must have been a game for him, because he continued to do it, and Fianna found him in increasingly strange places: the last straw was when she heard a strange, steady draft oozing from between the cracks of a small wardrobe, and she threw it open, screaming as Farengar and a stack of books and a fistful of black powder toppled all over the floor. Void salts, he’d called them, and now they were ruined! Fianna huffed at the memory. At least with the entirety of the mages quarters to himself, he’d likely leave the all the dark, closed places of the palace alone. Just a few months ago she’d found a burn mark inside a cupboard—-only then did she realize that the fiend had been doing fire experiments in her beloved wood furniture! 

“I’ll tell you what’s what about that mage,” Fianna said, setting down her teacup. “A load of trouble is right—-five years and I thought I’d be rid of him. Gods, what would his mother think?”

Myra looked up, surprised that Fianna had brought up the mage again. “Well, his parents’ is dead, Fianna,” Myra blinked. “Don’t you know? They sent him away to live with his aunt, and then his mother went and died two years later, and his father went out to sea an’ never came back.”

This was news to Fianna, that his parents had died so long ago. She’d known about him living with his aunt, how could she forget? The woman used to bring fresh baked bread for him, to remind him of them back at their farm. They boy wasn’t able to leave much. Norostian had kept him busy, and he seemed less and less inclined to spend time outside the palace as he grew older. Of course, if his parents had died…this would make sense. 

“Oh, what of his brothers—-didn’t he have two?”

“Yes’m, one elder and one younger, both smiths. The elder ran away with some elf, and the younger lives in Cyrodiil, learning at some Imperial forge. Hulda told me.”

“Hmph. Well if Hulda says it, it must be so.”

“Yes’m, that’s it—-Hulda knew the elder brother, used to write him. Thought she’d marry him some day, but he ran off with an elf! She knows the family, I think they’ve a cousin in common.”

“Hmph. Hulda could do better than some flaky smith, with looks like hers.”

“Yeah?” Myra asked wistfully, glancing at her own reflection in the gleaming teapot. 

Fianna felt a twinge of pity. Maybe she shouldn’t have called her ugly, before, even if everyone thought she was. “Oh, I suppose he wouldn’t be too handsome, Myra. He was always dreadfully thin—-did you know that everyone mistook him for a Breton? He got in a squabble with Hjoed many a time—-now Hjoed, there’s a man,” Fianna said gravely. “Find yourself a man like Hjoed, girl. Your children’ll thank you for it.” The girl’s eyes lit up, and Fianna nearly smiled. “Now off to bed. Go on, we’ve an early day tomorrow.”

Myra swept up the teapot and obeyed, her skirt fluttering about her feet as she hurried downstairs. Fianna sat in the darkening kitchen for a while more, listening to the sound of a growing blizzard outside. From here, she could see the white storm through the windows in the great hall. Eventually, the fire expired, and she sat in the dark, feeling, for once, the true extent of her age: the cold did that to her. It made her aware of every wrinkle, ache, and creaking bone, and of her rasping breath. Countless summers ago, she had lived on the wide plains, and spent her days gathering tall wildflowers and wearing threadbare skirts and eating meager meals, and singing and reading to her little brothers and sisters, and never had she been as happy as she had been then. The city had been far away, and she’d dreamed of warriors and adventures, and that one day she would marry a heroic man, and that they would live on her parents’ land, and be even happier, and wear simple clothes and eat simple meals and work the land and grow old. How old she had become! And never once had she been a beautiful girl, although as the years wore on, she was beginning to realize that it didn’t really matter at all. 

A boom startled her from her thoughts, and Fianna jerked her head to the source, and a muscle snagged in her neck in the process. Wincing, she turned her torso so that she could watch the tall, wide-shouldered figure stride from the staircase to the great hall, a shorter one following him. They seemed to be arguing about something—-the smaller man had an even tone, and sounded as if he were trying to reason with the taller man, whose posture was defiant. Their faces were hidden in shadow and backlit by torchlight, but she came to realize that they were Prevents Avenicci and Jarl Balgruuf. Leaning forward carefully, so that she wouldn’t strain her neck again, Fianna struggled to listen:  
“My Jarl—-please think about this for a moment—-“

“Proventus, I have thought about this for weeks. I can not sit by while such danger lurks right under our feet! I have a kingdom to consider, and a new family to protect.”

“I am aware of the stakes, my Jarl, and I do admire your courage, but patience. To act now, with such incomplete knowledge, could endanger yet more lives, or lose us the advantage that the enemy still thinks us unaware. There is nothing that we can do—-tell me, what could be done? We don’t know the first thing about this threat!”

“We know that it has taken three lives already. What more must I know to make the decision that something must be done? To think that these very walls know our every move, that—-“  
His voice dropped out of ear range, and Fianna held her breath, praising the gods that the fire had died hours ago, and was silent.

“—-and the guards have surely noticed by now that something is amiss. More patrols, better security—-it must be obvious to them by now that something is going on, we haven’t had an attack for years. And what of the victims? How long until people notice they are missing? How long until another death? What of your daughter, Proventus?“

Proventus seemed to steel himself before he replied: 

“I know. I know. I understand what I am asking. But I urge you, Jarl Balgruuf, to wait. The mage will be here any day now, and then we can hopefully get some idea about what Padomay has to do with three dead girls.” 

“And so we will wait,” the jarl agreed. He sighed. “Talos, guide us in this dark time.” His silhouette moved to merge with the shadow of the throne, and Proventus poured them each a glass of wine. The jarl accepted his graciously, and let out a resigned sigh. “Hmph. To think this is all riding on some uppity mage from the north.”

“I was under the impression that you were fond of the boy.”

“Fond of the boy, yes. But of the man—-I know nothing of him. No one can deny that he was as stubborn and audacious as any nord child, but I worry what two years on that blasted rock have done to him. Those mages get up to strange things there, dark things…”

Fianna had heard enough. Heart racing, she slowly rose from her chair, her hand awkwardly cradling her head, and ghosted down the stairs to the freezing servant’s rooms. Dead girls—-three dead girls. She felt a chill settle deep into her old bones, and it was a deeper, darker cold than the blizzard outside, and the long-fingered licks of winter air slithering across the stone walls. Three dead girls, and a strange mage was being called upon to sort it out! A mage! She felt her heart rate pick up again as she imagined the “strange, dark things” that the mages in Winterhold must get up to: she imagined piles of bones, buckets of ashes, and nightshade hanging on mossy walls, and shrines to deadra in every corner. The terrified old woman crept noiselessly into bed, and pulled her covers over her head in an attempt to protect herself from the evil forces that seemed to be lurking in Whiterun—-three dead girls! Shaking and shivering beneath her coarse covers, Fianna wished again for the sunny fields and silly dreams of her youth, and realized with shock that she had never really grown up at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just ended my senior year in high school, and lots of things have been happening, and I've been under a lot of stress. Now that things are coming to a close, and I'm learning how to manage these things, I'm trying to continue my fanfictions. I only have two that I'm working on---my other one is a Walking Dead fanfiction, and it just feels so good to get back to these characters. I really want to watch them change, and I hope that you will enjoy it!


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